З життя
«Коханий, забереш мене з роботи?»: Женя сподівається уникнути довгої дороги додому після важкого дня.
Зайчику, можеш мене забрати з роботи? – звернулася Женя до чоловіка з надією, що після важкого робочого дня їй не доведеться ще півгодини трястися в маршрутці.
– Я зайнятий, – лаконічно відповів Артем. В той же час по телефону чітко чувся звук телевізора, тож було зрозуміло, що Артем вдома.
Жені стало прикро до сліз. Шлюб був на межі розриву, хоча ще пів року тому Артем був готовий носити її на руках. Що ж сталося за цей час? Женя не знала.
Вона стежила за своєю фігурою, багато часу проводячи в спортзалі. Чудово готувала – все ж не дарма працювала в популярному ресторані. Ніколи не просила грошей, не створювала істерик, завжди була готова виконати будь-яке бажання чоловіка…
– Ти йому швидко набриднеш, – зітхала мама, вислуховуючи скарги доньки. – Не можна всім потурати чоловіку.
– Я просто його люблю, – з безвихіддю відповідала Женя. – І він мене…
*****
– Виявляється, я йому набридла, – прикушуючи губу, Женя переглядала історію браузера. Виявилось, Артем весь вільний час проводив на сайтах знайомств, спілкуючись з кількома дівчатами одночасно. – Чому не можна було просто поговорити зі мною? Я б усе зрозуміла та відпустила. Навіщо мучитися поруч з нелюбою жінкою і мучити її своєю поведінкою?
Що ж, розлучення. Вона сильна, переживе. Але просто так вона його не відпустить. Маленька помста йому не завадить…
Того ж вечора Женя зареєструвалася на тому ж сайті, що й чоловік, знайшла його сторінку і написала. Фото взяла з інтернету, трохи відредагувала, впевнена, що Артем клюне. І він клюнув.
Почалось бурхливе листування. Чоловік в своїх повідомленнях писав, що не одружений, готовий до серйозних стосунків та дітей. Всіляко вихваляв свій чудовий характер, чим до сліз смішив Женю. Вона ж прекрасно знала, як важко під нього підлаштуватися.
– Давай зустрінемося, – написала Женя, затамувавши подих, чекала на відповідь.
– Я тільки за, – відповідь прийшла за кілька секунд. – Але в моїй квартирі тимчасово живе сестра, готується до вступних іспитів. Тож зустрінемось на нейтральній території, а вечір продовжимо в готелі.
– Невже? – вирвалось у Жені після читання. – Чому ти так впевнений, що я одразу погоджусь йти з тобою в готель? Та будь-яка нормальна людина образилася б на таке пропозицію! Втім, мені це на руку.
– Тоді давай зустрінемось у мене вдома? Живу в котеджі за містом, сама. Ніхто нам не завадить…
– Прекрасна ідея! – Артем був очевидно радий, очевидно, що не доведеться витрачати зайві гроші. – Пиши адресу і час. Прилечу на крилах любові.
– Вулиця **** 25, о десятій вечора. Підходить?
– Звичайно! Чекай на мене.
О дев’ятій вечора чоловік удав, що його терміново викликали на роботу. Не зміг знайти ключі від машини і неохоче запитав у дружини, чи не бачила вона їх.
– На тумбочці були, – Женя дивилася на чоловіка чесними очима, тим часом тримаючи ключі в кишені. – Може, їх кіт туди закинув?
А вона й не думала на нього чекати. Навіщо? Проводила час з користю – збирала свої речі. На щастя, у неї була власна квартира, яка дісталася від бабусі. Єдине, що вона залишила – заяву на розлучення, покладену на видному місці.
А Артем повернувся додому лише вранці, скажено злий. Мало того, що дорога в одну сторону зайняла більше години, так ще й Анжели з сайту там не було.
Адреса була справжня, будинок теж існував. Але ось жила там зовсім не та дівчина модельної зовнішності, що була на світлинах. Двері йому відкрила жінка раз у три більша за нього. На ній був лише напівпрозорий халат, і чоловік готовий був віддати всі гроші, щоб забути цю картину.
Зрештою, він ледве втік від цієї шаленої! Знову довелося викликати таксі, щоб тільки вибратися звідти. Машину довелося чекати дуже довго, Артем навіть встиг замерзнути у своєму піджаку. А ще й водій виявився дивним, та спочатку повіз його кудись у невідомість… Загалом, нічка видалася весела.
І лише зайшовши до квартири і побачивши заяву на столі, він зрозумів, хто стояв за всім цим “розвагою”. Адже поруч губною помадою було написано: “Це солодка помста”.
Mother-in-Law Anna Peters was sitting in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmering on the stove. She had forgotten to stir it three times already, each time remembering too late: the milk would froth, spill over, and she would clean the stove irritably with a cloth. In those moments she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, everything in the family seemed to derail. Her daughter grew tired, thinner, and quieter. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes heading straight to the bedroom. Anna saw this and thought: how can you just leave a woman to cope alone? She spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. And then she noticed something strange: after she spoke, the house didn’t feel lighter, but heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, he grew gloomier, and Anna returned home with a sinking feeling that once again, she hadn’t done things right. That day she went to see their vicar, not for advice, but because there was nowhere else to go with this feeling. “I suppose I’m just not a good person,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I always do things wrong.” The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I tried to help. Instead, I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her attentively, but without judgment. “You’re not a bad person. You’re just exhausted. And very anxious.” She sighed. That rang true. “I’m so worried for my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you notice what he does?” the vicar asked. Anna thought for a moment. She remembered how, last week, he washed the dishes late at night when he thought no one saw. How on Sunday he took the pram out for a walk, even though he looked as if he’d rather collapse into bed. “He does help… I suppose,” she replied doubtfully. “But not the way he should.” “And what way is that?” the vicar asked gently. Anna wanted to reply at once, but realised she didn’t know. She could only think: more, better, more attentively. But what, exactly, was hard to explain. “I just want things to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that,” the vicar replied quietly. “Not to him, but to yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean you’re not fighting for your daughter — you’re fighting her husband. And fighting means being tense. That exhausts everyone: you, and them.” Anna was silent for a long while. Then she asked, “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against someone, but for someone.” On her way home, she thought over his words. Remembered how, when her daughter was a little girl, she would just sit beside her quietly if she cried — never lecturing. Why was it different now? The next day, she arrived unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised; her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t stay long,” Anna said. “Just wanted to help.” She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without a word about how hard things were, or what they ought to do. The next week, she came again. And again, the week after. She still noticed that her son-in-law was far from perfect. But she began to see other things: the way he gently picked up the baby, how at night he tucked a blanket around her daughter when he thought no one was looking. One day, in the kitchen, she couldn’t help herself and asked him, “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked startled, as if no one had ever asked before. “It’s hard,” he answered, after a pause. “Very.” And nothing more. But something sharp in the air between them was gone. Anna realised she’d been waiting for him to change. But it needed to start with her. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say “I told you so.” She just listened. Sometimes she took the children to give her daughter a break. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how things were. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to stay angry. But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect — just quieter. Free of endless tension. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood something simple: reconciliation doesn’t come from someone admitting they’re wrong. It comes when someone is willing to stop fighting first. She still wanted her son-in-law to be more attentive. That wish hadn’t gone away. But alongside it lived something more important: for her family to have peace. And every time the old feeling — frustration, resentment, the urge to criticise — rose up, she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them? Almost always, the answer showed her what to do next.
Mother-in-Law Margaret Williams sat in the kitchen, her eyes resting on the saucepan of milk gently simmering on the hob....
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Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: “Why hasn’t your husband written or called?” “No word, Vera—not after nine days, not after forty,” Lyuda would joke, adjusting her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s gone off the rails, or worse, then,” her neighbour nodded sympathetically. “Well, wait and see. Have the police said anything?” “Everyone’s silent, Vera—quiet as fish in that sea of his.” “Life, eh… fate.” That conversation weighed heavy on Lyudmila as she swept the autumn leaves from her doorstep in the dreary fall of 1988. Three years into her well-earned retirement, she’d had to take up work as a council cleaner to make ends meet. Life had always been simple—she and her husband, both dutiful workers, had raised a son, no scandal, no sorrow. Then Igor went on a seaside holiday and never returned. She’d phoned every hospital, every police station, even the morgue. Her son, stationed with the military, helped with inquiries—it was discovered Igor checked out of his hotel but never boarded the train home. Lyudmila wanted to go search for her husband, but her son insisted he’d handle it. Weeks passed, and she kept herself busy to stifle her fears. Then, as suddenly as he’d vanished, Igor reappeared—no suitcase, just the same navy suit and a weary silence. As she fussed to feed him and her son, the truth unravelled: Igor had been living with another woman by the sea, seeking “freedom.” The shock, the ache of betrayal—Lyudmila couldn’t bear it. Igor, shamed and lost, tried to return weeks later, but Lyudmila stood firm. It wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the pain of not knowing, of years shared and suddenly made strange. She swept her pathway, watching leaves collect and blow away, knowing sometimes those who hurt us most have already gone with the wind. (Original Title Adapted for English Culture: Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: The Disappearance, the Heartbreak, and the Road Swept Clean)
Yours hasnt written or rung you yet? No, Vera, not a word after nine days, not after forty either, Lydia...
You Drive Me Up the Wall!… I Can’t Eat Right, Can’t Dress Right, Can’t Do Anything Right! — Pavel’s voice broke into a shout. — You can’t do anything!… Can’t even earn proper money!… We never get any help from you around the house!… — Marina burst into tears, — …And there are no children…, — she whispered. Belka — a white-and-ginger cat of about ten, perched atop the wardrobe, silently witnessed yet another “family tragedy”. She knew, she could sense, that Mum and Dad truly loved each other… But she didn’t understand why they said such cruel words that hurt everyone. Mum, sobbing, locked herself in the bedroom as Dad lit one cigarette after another. Belka, seeing her family falling apart, thought, “There must be happiness in this house… and happiness means children… we need to find some children…” Belka couldn’t have kittens herself — she’d been spayed years ago, and as for Mum… the doctors said she could, but something just wouldn’t work out… The next morning, after her humans left for work, Belka, for the very first time, slipped out the window to visit her neighbour Pawsy — for advice. — Why would you want kids? — scoffed Pawsy. — Ours come with children, and I have to hide from them… they smear lipstick on your face or squeeze you until you can’t breathe! Belka sighed: — We just need normal children… If only we could find some… — Hmmm… That street cat Molly’s had a litter… five of them… — mused Pawsy. — Take your pick… Taking her chances, Belka leapt balcony to balcony to the street. Shivering nervously, she squeezed through the railings of a basement window and called out: — Molly, could you come out for a minute, please… From deep within came desperate squeaks. Carefully crawling through, eyes darting in fear, Belka began to cry. Under the radiator, on the hard gravel, lay five tiny, sightless kittens, nudging the air and wailing for their mum. One sniff told her: Molly hadn’t been back for at least three days. The babies were starving. Fighting tears, Belka gently carried each kitten to the entrance. Trying to calm her hungry, squeaking brood, Belka lay down beside them, anxiously watching the end of the yard, waiting for Mum and Dad. Pavel, silent as he met Marina after work, brought them home. As they reached the doorway, they froze — there was their Belka, (who had never set paw on the street alone), and five multicoloured kittens clambering to nurse from her. — What on earth? — Pavel was stunned. — A miracle…, — echoed Marina, and together they scooped up the cat and kittens and rushed inside… Watching Belka purr happily in a box with her new babies, Pavel asked: — But what do we do with them? — I’ll feed them with a dropper… once they’re bigger, we’ll find them homes… I’ll call my friends…, — Marina whispered. Three months later, still stunned by the turn of events, Marina sat stroking her “cat pack” and murmured, over and over: — Things like this just don’t happen… this just doesn’t happen… Then, she and Pavel broke down in happy tears; he swept her into his arms, and they both laughed and chattered at once: — I’m glad I finished building the house! — Perfect for a child to get some fresh air! — And let the kittens run in the garden! — There’ll be room for everyone! — I love you! — And I love you even more! Wise Belka brushed away a tear — life, it seemed, was finally coming together…
How you get on my nerves! Nothing I do is right not even how I eat, not even what I...
I Called Out the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Your Death!” — She Turned and Waved Her Shovel Cheerfully: “I’m Doing This for You Lazybones!” — And the Next Day, My Mum Was Gone… I Still Can’t Walk Past Our Garden Gate Without Tears Every Time I See That Pathway, My Heart Clenches Like Someone’s Gripped It in Their Fist. I Took That Photo on the Second of January… I Only Stopped When I Noticed Her Footprints in the Snow—Now That Photo Is All I Have Left of Those Days… We’d Spent New Year Together, Just as Always: Mum in Her Favourite Apron I Gave Her at School, the Smell of Fried Burgers, Family Jokes, Dad Arriving with an Enormous Tree, All of Us Decorating, Singing Old Christmas Songs, Laughing Until We Cried… On 2nd January, I Looked Out to See Mum Clearing a Perfect Pathway from the Gate to Our Door, Her Scarf Tied Up, Red-cheeked, Shovelling Snow So We Wouldn’t Have to Struggle Through the Drifts. “It’s for You, My Lazy Lot—Go Put the Kettle On,” She Called, Smiling. That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Voice So Cheerful. The Next Day She Was Gone, So Suddenly It Didn’t Seem Real. Only Her Little Footprints Remain—Marks in the Snow, and In My Heart.
I remember shouting out the window, Mum, what are you doing out there so early? Youll freeze! She turned around,...